


24 Floors

by baracuntt



Category: Fall Out Boy, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, College AU kinda, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicide, also sad ending, brendon is really only ever mentioned, sad gay artists, the title doesn't make sense until the end, there are no band, this is bad actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:21:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4380557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baracuntt/pseuds/baracuntt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He ends every night as a skeleton, a projection of what he used to be. When his bony fingers gripped the bottle like a life line, he felt just a little bit better. Tyler Joseph isn’t an alcoholic, he's an artist and he's just having a tough time. Inspiration isn't something he has anymore, so he goes out every night looking for it.</p><p>Tyler’s roommate Patrick spends the days working and annoying Tyler with his boyfriend, Pete. So Tyler drinks.</p><p>Josh Dun works at a small record shop and combined with Pete’s salary it paid the bills. He got to pick his hours and it was just off campus. He’s working towards a degree in English and then maybe teaching.</p><p>He stopped caring about relationships after his last boyfriend, Brendon. He’s happy alone. Sometimes he slept with people, but he was always gone before they woke up. I guess you could say Josh Dun is anti-love. At least, until he meets Tyler.</p><p>And when they do meet, Tyler finds his muse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	24 Floors

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably really bad i am so sorry

Tyler was alone and drunk. He couldn't remember how much he'd had to drink. But he knew Patrick would be home soon. And that there was a half empty bottle of something on the coffee table. Tyler couldn't remember the last time he ate something and he was on the verge of passing out. There was something playing on the TV but he muted it hours before.

He heard the front door unlocking and keys dropping on the side table.

Patrick ruffled his hair, trying to bring a little life back to it. He gave a sigh as he shed his jacket, grateful to be home.

"Hey Tyler-" he began, but stopped short. Tyler lay on the couch, conscious, but hardly awake; breathing, but hardly alive. His eyes were almost shut and the thin skin around them was purple and bloodshot. His face looked gaunt and slick with cold sweat. The man in front of Patrick looked more dead than alive, and Patrick knew why before he even spotted the many empty liquor bottles. He didn't know why he hadn't expected it. Maybe he had just wanted this to be a good day. Tyler glanced up, drawing in a loud, shallow breath.

"Hey, Patrick. Patrick. Hey. What's- what's up man?" The words are slow and garbled, like he wasn't even trying to hide it.

"Nothing new. Same goes for you, I see." he spoke, a little harshly. He winced at his own words, though Tyler himself hardly seemed to notice.

"Yeah, you know. Just a regular day I guess. Felt a little low, maybe. But-" He spread his arms widely, trying to be welcoming. "You're here now! That's cool. That's good. Come sit down, you've been standing at the door forever."

Patrick watched him warily for a few second. He knew that they are both better off if he doesn't indulge this make-believe happiness. Well maybe it'll be okay? He almost hated himself for thinking it, but he sat down at the far end of the couch anyway. Tyler dragged himself upright, clutching at the cheap upholstery.

"Howareya, man?" Tyler asked, slapping a hand down on Patrick's knee. He stared at the hand, the bony, cold thing it was. His face burned hot with anger and embarrassment. Disappointment. He hated how Tyler destroyed himself like this, and that Patrick had to come home after work to this derelict man who could've been something if he hadn't let the world crush him. 

"Fine." He answered tersely, pushing Tyler's hand away. 

"Well, you're a little touchy, aren't you?" Tyler chuckled waveringly, laughing too hard. 

Patrick hated how different this person was from Sober Tyler, the real Tyler. It was a cruel kind of joke, calling them the same. Like if you ordered the finest steak at a fancy restaurant, but when they brought it out it was cold, half-rotten and had been sitting out for days. Tyler looked at Patrick as his laughter faded. He saw a lot of hurt behind that soft face. Hurt that reminded him of things he didn't want to think about. At this moment, the silent, bristling man was a mirror he didn't want to look into. 

"So. Uh, huh. How's... um... your..." Tyler struggled. His mind and his mouth failed him a lot when he was like this. "Damn. Uh... what's his name?"

"You mean Pete?" Patrick queried lowly, trying not to show the disappointment and anger he felt every time he saw his roommate like this. Trying not to feel it. 

"Yeah! How's he doing?"

"He's... great. He was here yesterday, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Just wondering what he'd gotten up to."

Patrick breathed out shortly, a sound full of anger. Tyler looked at him, a little hurt. Tyler knew what he was like was like when he was this drunk. Did Patrick think he didn't know? Did he just not care?

"Look, I. I know this is disappointing or whatever." Tyler mumbled.

Patrick's head snapped towards him, his face half wondering and half impatient. 

"But I... don't like how you act like maybe I don't know that. You seem so upset, but you almost never say anything. It's like you're constandaly hinting. I mean- what did I say? Con-stant-ly."

Patrick's head dipped, his eyes trained on the ground, wetting his pale pink lips. "So does that mean you want me to say something?" He hissed, emphasizing each syllable: each sound defined in his miserable little rage. 

Tyler blinked hard. This didn't seem like the Patrick he knew. Patrick's eyes flicked up at him, their usual warmth gone, replaced by this steely weariness. 

"If you want me to say something, I will." He stood up suddenly, making intense eye contact with Tyler. "I guess I could start by saying that this all FUCKING SUCKS. I am so sick of watching this. It's exhausting! I get so angry, and sad, and god, it's all so embarrassing because I hate myself for not saying anything but now that i am talking, it's almost even worse! Even if you don't care that it's hurting me, jesus, look what it's done to you!" He snapped, gesturing at Tyler emphatically. "You're not even Tyler Joseph when you're like this. Every drink you pour down your throat washes that person away until you're just a phantom! You're this warped version of my friend and- and." Patrick faltered, almost loosing his breath. As he began again, his voice quieted. "Are you even trying? Are you ever gonna save what's left of yourself? Or are you going to stay this way forever? As hollow-" he picked up the bottle of liquor from the table, upending it, letting Tyler watch it pour like an oil spill onto the dark table, "as this cheap plastic bottle." 

Patrick watched him for a moment, face twitching with the anger and despair you can't help but feel when a person you care about is killing themselves. He let the bottle go, shaking his head and turning away as it dropped. He didn't even want to eat. He just wanted to sleep it away. 

Meanwhile, Tyler stared at the caramel-colored pool of liquid that slowly oozed towards him. His throat was tight, and his cheeks were wet with tears. He was embarrassed, and upset, and angry at himself. 

"Save what's left..." He murmured, tracing a finger at the edge of the little puddle, pulling it back sharply before it could touch him.


End file.
